


it only took one kiss to know (it must have been the mistletoe)

by orphan_account



Category: Larry Stylinson - Fandom, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Christmas AU, Christmas Fluff, DECFANFIC, First Kiss, Fluff, Happy Ending, High School, Light Angst, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 23:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2711381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis almost didn't see it: the tiny plant that would alter his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it only took one kiss to know (it must have been the mistletoe)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Barbara Streisand's _It Must Have Been the Mistletoe_

“Fa la la la la, la la la ladies and gentlemen,” a voice rings out over the giddiest group of teenagers Louis has ever been part of. There are few titters at their host’s cheesy greeting, but it has served to quiet the horde. “If you’ll step through to the kitchen, just over here, my mum will be happy to, like, give you Christmas cookies, which I baked and decorated, though I ran out of the coloured sugar..." Harry is speaking at the pace of an elderly garden slug. "Think I used too much on the first batch. Anyway, she’s actually made quite a lovely stew, as well as—”

“Oh, bugger off, H. Come eat!” This from Harry’s older sister, the beautiful and more succinct Gemma Styles.

Louis is certain the food on offer is marvelous, but he has to be careful about his figure these days. Whereas puberty did nice things for his jawline and biceps, it was hell on his tummy. Or maybe that was simply all the baking he’s sampled for Harry over the last several years. At any rate, he stays in the lounge whilst the other young people shuffle off to be fed.

So far, Louis Tomlinson is enjoying himself. Spending time at Harry's house is absolutely the norm. He's here nine days out of ten, in fact, but tonight is the annual Styles family holiday bash. Styles' Stylish Soirée, as Louis has teasingly dubbed it.

Truthfully, it is a modish affair. The decorations, for the most part, are quite tasteful. Louis can see Harry’s mum’s touch all over the room: gingerbread-scented pillar candles juxtaposed with sparkly red ornaments, popcorn and cranberry garland covering a Fraser fir, and a large platter holding more than enough reindeer antler headbands for all the guests. You know, maybe Louis’ giving Anne too much credit. Harry does have a bit of a penchant for interior design, and surely the complementary Rudolph accessories were his brainchild. The weirdo.

It isn't long before people are trickling back in with plates of sweets and the requisite plastic cups of punch or eggnog. Anne makes a stellar nog, and it's possible she's enhanced it with a minuscule dose of rum, for the sake of authenticity. Culinary perfectionism is genetic, apparently.

As his guests are milling happily, Harry waits under the archway between kitchen and lounge, silent and pensive. Louis approaches him inquisitively.

"What're you doing, Haz? Why don't you mingle, or whatever it is party planners do to ensure success?"

"I'm supervising," Harry asserts. He may be 16, but he takes his entertaining duties seriously. "Just thought I'd keep an eye out, yeah?"

But Harry's not keeping an eye out. No, he's keeping an eye _up_. Well, both of his eyes are pointing heavenward. Louis figures it's only his best mate being mysterious, as usual. For himself, Louis prefers to be very blunt, whether people take it well or not. Harry, on the other hand, is naturally more cryptic. And conciliatory. If he's staring fixedly at the ceiling, there's likely a good reason, but Louis can't be arsed to riddle it out.

"I'm going to find Zayn, then, if you're set on being no fun."

Harry shrugs and smiles, at last. He looks bashful and, Louis admits, quite dapper in his tailored black blazer.

"Fair enough," Harry replies. He sounds a touch maudlin when he adds, "Be happy, Lou."

"I am, you wanker, no thanks to you. Neglecting me all night... Tsk, tsk." Louis' words are harsh, but his tone isn't, and he rewards Harry with a rub of knuckles to the boy's scalp, hidden under a nest of fluffy curls.

Harry glances up again, grin wilting imperceptibly. "I'll be over here awhile, so if you, like, need me—" He shrugs for the second time.

"Good to know." And with that, Louis' already sauntering away.

But Zayn can't be located. He's probably hidden away somewhere smoking up. Louis' just miffed he didn't cut him in on the action. Typical, really. Their mutual friend Niall is having a right laugh with some bird and waves him off when Louis tries to approach. Even Liam, usually shy and withdrawn, is busy giving Gemma bedroom eyes. Gemma! That's essentially incest, considering how close Liam is to Harry and his family.

There's no mischief to be had, it seems, and Louis slumps onto the sofa, extreme boredom his only companion. Damn, he's hungry. Maybe one little biscuit wouldn't hurt. He cranes his neck to scope out the crowd in the kitchen, but he's stopped in his metaphorical tracks when he notices what Harry's doing.

The handsome lad's current occupation is snogging the face off his ex-girlfriend. She’s blonde and buxom, and she’s got Harry by the lapels. Before Louis even knows how to react, Harry breaks the kiss gently, beaming down at her with fondness. Giving a final pat to his chest that’s somehow platonic and suggestive at the same time, she slips into the kitchen, coyly glancing back only once.

God, that was...unexpected. See, it had been Harry to break things off with her, after a year and a half of bad poetry and shy hand holding. He’d confessed that as much as he admired and respected her (Harry did use that precise verbiage), he didn’t feel a physical _spark_ with her, the lying bastard. He’s virtually radiating electricity now. Louis can feel it from across the room. He watches as Harry smooths his jacket and then pinches his bottom lip in wonder.

It’s a tough call: frog march Harry outside and box his ears, or chastise him via a strongly worded text. Harry’s welcome to waste as much of his personal time on simpering females as he desires, but Louis’ll be damned if he spends the rest of his school career listening to the play-by-plays.

Yet again, Louis doesn’t get a chance to make a decision, because a redhead he only knows in passing plants a wet kiss on Harry as she walks by. His response is a wink. What in bloody buggering hell? Is the punch spiked with aphrodisiacs?

Paralysed by something akin to horror, Louis watches as girl after girl claims Harry’s lips. It’s actually possible that Louis didn’t wake up this morning. That’s right, he’s trapped in a bizarre fantasy born in the hellish depths of his own mind. But when Gemma leans into her brother for a quick buss, something clicks.

Why, oh, why didn’t he realise sooner? Louis looks up slowly and with great trepidation. Yes, dangling above Harry’s head is an innocent sprig of foliage. A bundle of leaves and tiny white berries. A traditional element of Christmas trimmery.

That blushingly innocent little twat is standing under the mistletoe, taking kisses off his guests like they’re his fucking due.

It’s a bit of a mystery why this knowledge makes Louis’ blood boil and his vision swim. He’s rooted to the settee, powerless to process his emotions. Louis wants to weep, but he settles for laughing like a banshee.

The loud noise catches Harry’s attention. It almost looks like he’s going to walk over and check on Louis’ well-being, but he’s caught around the waist by a very tall, very male friend. Louis knows they sing together in a band formed recently for a talent competition. Despite not having been properly introduced, Louis’ not yet warmed to the guy. And now he most likely won’t, because the ginger giant is bending over and taking Harry’s chin in hand. What the—

Harry’s kissing a boy. He’s bloody well moving his preposterous cupid’s bow of a mouth on another man’s. Fuck this shit, he’s swaying into the body boxing him against the doorframe. He’s gripping the other’s elbow and holding on tight, keeping him near.

No. This is not on. This is the least acceptable thing Louis’ witnessed all evening, which is saying something.

He feels a surreal calm, Louis does, as he rises to his feet and begins moving. But he paces himself, tamping down an exquisite rage. He will not be deterred, not even when his other best mate, Stan, materialises out of nowhere with a bowl of popcorn, giving a friendly squeeze to the back of his neck. It’s too little, too late, in Louis’ opinion. He brushes away the pesky touch and strides on.

It doesn’t register that he’s being violent as he knocks Harry’s current kissing partner clear into the next room. That kid’s fate isn’t important to Louis; he’s inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. And there it is, he thinks, the clarity he’s been needing for so long.

Louis knows it now. He **wants** Harry... Not just leading cheers along the sidelines at his footie matches; not only snuggling in front of the telly, ignoring a good film in favour of a chat; not merely conducting entire conversations wordlessly, blue eyes on bay leaf green.

He wants to kiss him, and—look at that!—there’s a perfect excuse to do so above Harry’s head. Louis could laugh at the utter simplicity of it, except that Harry’s shifting. He’s sidling away, nearly in the kitchen now, presumably going to check on his cheeky friend.

“Don’t you fucking move,” Louis barks. Whoops, that was loud. And possibly unnecessarily aggressive. Ah, well. There’s naught to be done about it.

“Louis?”

It’s clear Harry’s not only questioning his motives. He appears to be doubtful of Louis’ very identity. The lad’s eyes are wide and frantic, his wiry arms crossed defensively on his chest. No, no, _no_. Louis cannot tolerate the distance between them. But instead of fueling his anger, Harry’s hesitance grants him focus.

When he reaches out to take his friend by the shoulder, it’s not forceful. Louis gentles him with a touch and a smile, and it’s exactly what Harry needs to become grounded. The confusion in his face melts away.

“Louis,” he says with profound relief. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Louis returns, reeling Harry in to center them under the archway. Louis wants to be tender, he does, but he determines that the best way to proceed is with a mild ribbing. The familiarity might smooth his path. “Hey,” he goes on tiptoe to murmur against Harry’s cheekbone, “What’s all this, then?”

“Hmm?”

Louis allows his lips to linger on the side of Harry’s pinkening face. For all their wrestling, and tickling, and casual touching, they’ve never been this close. Louis aligns their torsos and slides a hand around to guide Harry nearer.

“You easy for it tonight, or something? You need loving from everyone here, eh?”

Sputtering, Harry protests. “No, I—”

“You what?”

“ _Louis_.” It’s just one word, his name, but it sounds like a plea.

He can’t resist. Louis rubs their noses together. If things are going to change between them soon, he wants to revel in the moment.

“What, Harry? What can you possibly mean, standing here all night getting mauled?”

“I, I—” It’s obviously hard for Harry to speak, so Louis presses a thumb to his mouth, giving him a chance to gather his thoughts. When Louis drags the touch down, his thumbnail catches on Harry’s lower lip and curls it outward briefly. Suddenly not wanting to overwhelm him, Louis lets his arms fall. His hips still bump the tops of Harry’s thighs, but otherwise, Harry is unconstrained.

With a deep, hitching breath, Harry finally tells the truth.

“I was just waiting for you.”

If he wasn’t afraid of worrying Harry, Louis would hang his head to process the information. As it is, Louis brings his mouth up within easy reach. He won’t force contact, but neither will he turn away.

“Love, I’ve been waiting for you longer.”

When they kiss, it’s like Harry’s lips have never caressed anyone else’s. Louis doesn’t mind the mingled flavours of gloss he finds there, caring even less as Harry confidently opens his mouth to him.

Louis ends the party in Harry’s embrace. He ends the night there, too. Not to mention the next 60 plus years. It must've been his destiny all along.

Actually, no. It must have been the mistletoe.


End file.
